


Rotten Wood

by hannahrhen



Series: Here Comes Your Man [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Caretaking, Empathy, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Man 3, Kidnapping, M/M, Reconciliation, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Warning: Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something's got to give.</p><p>Something's <em>going</em> to give.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkWaterFalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWaterFalls/gifts).



> Title from "Crooked Teeth" by Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
> For clareithromycin for the original prompts that contorted themselves into this hot mess of misery.

Here’s the thing.

Tony wasn’t an idiot. No matter what Howard Stark might have told him (repeatedly, for years). No matter what Obadiah clearly thought, especially at the end. No matter what Tony told himself in those dark moments when the fucking solution just wouldn’t make itself known.

He may not have been the only “Midgardian” soulmate ever, but ... _seemed like it._ Poetic license and teenage delusion aside, humans didn’t appear to have this kind of bullshit thing with each other. Despite how much he loved Pepper, or how much Dad supposedly loved Mom--Tony just felt in his bones that he would know if this kind of insane connection occurred naturally, or had ever occurred naturally, between people on this planet.

Nope. Didn’t think so.

And there wasn’t a long, rich history of Asgardians coming down to traipse through the Garden of Eden and offer golden apples to anyone’s ancestors. Thor claimed he had never formed a bond--with human- or his own kind. Loki’s face-- _Loki’s face_ when he was struck by the same feeling that nearly crippled Tony?

Yeah, he’d never done this, either.

So that delay, the lapse of time between Tony meeting Loki and just fucking suddenly craving him like pure heroin in his veins (not that Tony had ever done that, mind you--alcohol was fine. A little weed in college. Yeah, okay, some coke, but he was precocious in the eighties) ... That elapsed time that allowed Loki to try to kill him twice and kill a whole metric fuckload of other people ...

(Don’t think of Phil. Don’t think of Phil.)

Yeah, no. _No._ Thor, who somehow had become the expert on all things Asgardian-soulbond, was happy to write off that delay as some kind of human defect, Tony could parse through the big man’s practiced genial buffoonery. Something must be wrong with _people_ for it to have taken that long for the hentai-creepy tentacles of Loki’s psyche to weave their way into Tony’s gut or heart or whatever.

Tony, for awhile, bought that insulting-as-hell explanation.

He could be an idiot.

It wasn’t until late one night, weeks after that new normal had settled in, that he turned his mind to it again. His ass was propped precariously on a stool in the workshop, and he was staring at a shelf filled with crap: half-finished prototypes, discarded parts, the stash of clean (enough) rags. The empty box from Pepper’s “Tony Stark has a heart” gift--

Tony’s breath stopped.

Oh, yeah, okay--he was an idiot.

He raised his hand to his chest, ran two fingertips over the thin soft cotton of his t-shirt, over the hollow of scar tissue, grafted bone and prosthetics ... The incision and _infrastructure_ that had finally healed fully after the winter’s operation to remove--

He could hear the clink, in his memory, of Loki’s scepter hitting the circle in the middle of his chest. See Loki’s surprise, that single, uncalculated expression Tony had witnessed only two times in their colorful history. That first time, it had just lasted a second, before--

Tony drew in a quick breath, trying to stave off the memory of those fingers squeezing his neck, pressing into his carotid and jugular, Tony desperately hoping JARVIS would deploy the suit before Loki finished whatever kill move he was entertaining behind bright, dancing eyes. The arc reactor had been the only thing to save him then, and--

“Sir?” Yeah, JARVIS. Not surprised. “Loki is inquiring after your well-being.”

Bless JARVIS. Who the hell knew how Loki had actually worded it, but JARVIS always made it sound like someone's elderly aunt was sending a Hallmark card in the mail.

“Tell his royal shittiness that I’m fine.” And JARVIS would translate that into the most courtly of responses, befitting that arrogant fuck who--

Idiot. _FOCUS._

The arc reactor. It had sat between Loki and the scepter, and it had surrounded his heart with a magnetic field that maybe, just maybe, held this fucking bond at bay.

And he had ripped it out and thrown it in the proverbial garbage.

Wondered ... yeah, he had to wonder. If the bond, now in place, could be--maybe not prevented, it was too late for that, but ... interfered with.

_Repulsed._

And if it could ... _If it could_ ...

Tony just fucking laughed. An ugly one, poisoned with the kind of emotion that would make Loki freeze in place, wherever he was, and ask JARVIS again--

“Sir.”

Tony tamped it the fuck down. “I’m fine, Jay. Tell him I’m fine.

“Yeah. I’m much, _much_ _better.”_

***

There’s one other thing, though.

Loki’s sorcery had only grown more powerful.

The spellcast he could perform, those “tricks,” as his once-brother snorted dismissively. They were, even now, moving beyond what Mother had been able to do at her most focused, her most vicious.

Her most _womanly._

And being trapped in the Tower only gave Loki time to think.

This living nightmare? Sensing Stark's revulsion, the barely-repressed shivers when he deigned to let Loki touch him in late evening, the filth that spewed from his mouth ...

Once, long ago, any who dared speak to Loki in such a manner would be flogged, or worse. But time had passed, fate had grown cruel _(more cruel),_ and Loki was not a prince of Asgard.

Loki was not truly of Asgard at all.

Thor could say what he wished, but this soul bond could not be of Asgard either. Never had he heard of soulmates whose connection produced such sudden and sustained misery. Never had he heard of a bond that took so long to form, and when it did--

He allowed himself the full expression of self-pity just for a moment, long enough to remember weeks past. To regret heeding Thor’s suggestion that he attend Thor’s own visit with Stark, as part of his diplomatic duties, to sense whether there was any hope on Midgard for Loki’s forgiveness in this generation or even the next.

Stark, Thor had explained, had committed his own crimes--had recovered and made amends--and so was likely to be more willing than some of his fellow warriors.

Stark had not been willing.

That was more than obvious in the following weeks, but that first moment, when Thor and Loki landed on Stark’s balcony, when they had stepped into Stark’s home and turned to find the man emerging from his elevator ...

That single, glorious moment.

And then nothing but anguish. Stark forcing him away, rejecting the connection, growing more and more ill.

More and more angry.

Having Thor, days later, convince Stark to go through with the ceremony had been a special kind of humiliation, and then, after, in Stark's bed ... No. Best not dwelled upon. Loki could sense the artificial intelligence that was even now attuned to his actions, his voice, and he knew that Stark was picking up on his feelings even now. Trying to decide whether to ask about them. To ask after _him._

But if Loki sat very, very still ...

He found a place in a padded chair near the window, one good for reading and other needs. Closed his eyes. Cast a careful, silent spell. Found what he was looking for, almost at once.

Mother would have been proud.

Stark had theorized, later that first night, that he would pass soon enough, at least relative to Loki’s lifespan, and that Loki would be free to find another. Suggested Loki would be more fortunate the next time, perhaps, in his next bond.

But Stark didn’t understand. Thor hadn’t told him, and Loki hadn’t corrected him. One bond was all he would _enjoy._ Once was all anyone was _blessed with._ He would have this single soulmate, and, when Stark passed, Loki would suffer, and suffer, and _suffer_ ... and no more would come.

And he knew surviving bondmates could do just that--survive--but the pain of the separation was, for a time, extreme. No survivor remained unchanged after such a loss.

Turned inward to his spell, Loki watched his projected form manifest in the distant chamber of one whom he had not seen in ages. One he never thought he’d call on again.

“Amora.” She turned from her window, and he was reminded anew of how lovely she was, and how treacherous. She greeted him with a surprised smile and soft words, eyes narrowing as she recognized he was only a shade.

Asked him, in low tones, what he wanted of her.

Loki found it useful to keep certain allies accessible, ones who would commit the acts that he himself wouldn’t, or, in this case, physically _couldn’t._ Because Loki couldn’t harm his bondmate; if he even attempted it, the rebounding torture of that type of intimacy would be unbearable. Altruism at its most selfish, set right into the core of what bound them.

Stark’s death would come eventually. But no matter his lifespan, whether it was the scant decades allowed the mortals, or the longer life made possible through Idunn’s gift ... it was too long. Too long to live like this. 

Too long for Loki to live like this. _Stark_ could go to _Hel._

If Loki was going to survive the loss of his soulmate, if Loki was going to live through that particular wound ... he’d rather make the cut now.

“My dear,” he cooed, in just the tone he knew would worm through her natural wariness. “I have need of a favor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That last night, Loki’s heart was light.

That last night, Loki’s heart was light.

No, not “light.” That would grossly mischaracterize his true state, but there was no doubt: Now that his situation was settled, now that his plans were in effect, his spirit was already improving.

_Such a relief._ Tears would have collected at the corners of his eyes if he had any less control. Because, now, his only remaining challenge was to prevent Stark from realizing something was amiss.

That last night, after Stark had staggered into his arms from the doorway, after they had both prepared, separately, for sleep, after they had settled under the bed linens, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip ...

Stark watched him. Loki kept his gaze firmly on the ceiling, pretended at his lids slowly drooping shut. Hoped Stark’s sudden attention would wane, as it always did. That Stark would be distracted by his work, his friends ... his own miserable _brooding._

But Stark wasn’t distracted. “You feel different.” His voice was as calm as Loki had heard it--genuinely curious for the first time. He’d twisted his shoulders slightly in Loki’s direction. “Why?” The suspicion was mild, but evident.

Ah, _damn._

But a millennium of deceit was more than needed for one Midgardian, even one as intellectually gifted as Loki’s “mate.” “I am in better spirits today.” Layered his voice with a hint of menace. “Does that truly offend you?”

Expected the pulse of hurt--yes, there it was. Familiar, and almost comfortable for it. Loki felt the emotion pass back and forth between them like ripples on the water, ever-diminishing, but never quickly enough. Waited for Stark to roll back into himself, to end this final day between them.

But instead the man simply said, “Sorry.” Finally turned away, then, but only to stare at the same patterns on the ceiling that occupied Loki’s attention. “I’m-- I’m sorry. It’s actually a ... yeah. A nice change of pace.” Snorted. “But you can tell that.” The slight humor in Stark’s tone, and in his heart, was ... different. A _nice change of pace,_ indeed. He hadn’t felt anything like it before.

“Yes.” Loki hummed, letting the ripples flatten and slow. “It _is_ a relief.”

Stayed quiet long enough for Stark’s frame to relax into their bed. For the fatigue in their bodies and spirits to twine together and drag them into sleep. Resolutely thought of nothing but the emerging waves of new-found peace he already felt. And would continue to feel.

Just as soon as he passed through the trials ahead.

“Goodnight, Stark.” Felt one more curious--wary--look settle upon him, before Stark gave in and allowed himself to succumb to rest.

***

When Loki woke the next morning, he was alone. Was used to that--Stark apparently had some sleeping ailment and already struggled with their nightly ritual. He joked that--

_Had_ joked that.

Because Stark was gone. Loki was reasonably sure of it. The battering of terrible emotion was missing; the sense of someone, nearby, abhoring him, simply plucked away. It was-- _oh!_ It was a relief, a profound one. He’d expected a flare-up of the torture, a merciless blow to his soft belly, a gash through his crippled heart.

Instead, Loki simply had ... a headache. A throb in the front of his skull, just behind his forehead. A pulse that echoed his heart, which was still, simply, beating. Not faster, not slower.

Just beating.

Loki expected to feel worse--much worse, admittedly, and if this was as much as he would suffer ... He would consider himself lucky. Perhaps this was the lingering effect of such a fractured, frail bond, or the single good product of his Jotunn biology.

A soulmate shaken off with no more inconvenience than the aftermath of a night of heavy drinking.

It was so easy. But because Loki was Loki, he had to fear “too easy,” and he set about on the same route he had taken their first night, examining every corner of the living quarters, up and down stairs, the kitchen, balcony, bathrooms. Didn’t call out to Stark, no--that would draw JARVIS’ attention, and JARVIS’ ignorance was a core part of the--

Stark was gone.

Loki could have laughed, he was so giddy. And so all the tiny questions, the little, quiet conversations he had started with the artificial intelligence--they became invaluable, finally, as Loki spoke the spell that muted JARVIS’ voice. Quietly, with no fanfare, disconnected it from the larger networks of similar machines around this realm.

Loki couldn’t help a small smile as he confirmed the entity’s isolation and impotence. Stark would have taken offense at Loki’s reference to “similar machines”--he apparently took some great amount of pride in this construct, in what he had achieved in his lifetime.

He _had_ taken pride. Now, if his countrymen could get JARVIS operational again, after Stark’s disappearance was discovered, perhaps it would be the man’s best legacy.

Most mortals died leaving less. And if that thought--of the now-vanished brilliance of his soulmate--brought him a tiny ache ... again, such a price to pay. Practically a _bargain._

It had been (too) easy. Amora had agreed to take Stark from the Tower when he woke, when he found his way from their rooms to his plans for the morning. Slip from the shadows and incapacitate the man, secreting him from the house without drawing attention. Loki's barrier spells masked her actions and Stark’s reaction ... though Stark himself would have been unconscious before he could realize what was happening.

That Loki hadn’t woken until it was done suggested the plan had gone as conceived, and Loki appeared faultless. Just in case his magic failed or JARVIS were more resilient than he had believed.

“Take him away and ... it doesn’t matter,” he’d told his temporary ally. “Just ... dispose of him. And quickly.” No, Loki couldn’t do it, but the bond wouldn’t prevent him from asking a favor. A favor to be exchanged in the future for one he would no doubt struggle to pay.

He told himself it would be worth it.

He felt some gratitude, a long-absent emotion, that Amora hadn’t just killed both of them in their sleep. Given her history, it was a significant risk. But, truly, that outcome would have been better than--

_Oh,_ Loki’s head in fact hurt terribly. And now his stomach was turning, just a little. Understandable, given the trauma of the separation from his soulmate. A frail, fragmented connection, but a bond nonetheless. It would not be considered his fault that his fate-chosen one could be so easily taken--so easily hurt. He hadn't _asked_ to be bound to a mortal.

He wondered if Stark had suffered. Hoped ... Ah. _No._ That line of thought was of no use. What was, was. Both their miseries were now at an end.

He collapsed into a fat sofa in the living room, chuckling--yes, a little madly--at the absurdity of it all. Thor would come soon enough, another one of his supervisory visits, and by then, Loki needed to be far from here. But he had a little time, to rest, to craft detailed plans, and to gather his belongings, including a few of Stark’s finer books.

They would serve as mementos of this period of his existence, one he intended to push into the past soon enough. Was pleased, on some level, that their last night together had been--

_Hadn’t_ been--

Well. _Goodnight, Stark._ After a moment’s silent reflection, Loki moved to stand, but instead, curiously, wobbled on his feet. He sank back into the cushions, eyes widening a bit.

Hm, yes, a bit of vertigo, as well. Inevitable. If this was the worst of it--a headache, some nausea, dizziness, and that vague apprehension that ran in a loose current under his skin ... Yes, perhaps Loki could thank his Jotunn heritage for this one gift.

So, he only had a moment to feel it coming, the energy moving through the air, having traveled from some great distance. He felt, rather than saw, the psychic arrow, sharp as Barton’s, honing in on him. And when it struck--

When it struck--

Loki’s heart-- _oh! **OH!**_ \--near to burst in his chest. He lurched from the sofa and hit the floor on hands and knees, lungs filling with a desperate gasp before he could force out a cry. And then, in a fit of clarity before the torment scattered and exiled his ability to think, to reason, Loki knew:

This was only the beginning.

Stark, somewhere, had woken up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this was pretty excruciating to write, but I think Tony finally cooperated.

If Tony Stark had been a different man, the way he felt when he woke--or, you know, _came to_ \--would have dropped him. Again.

But he was Tony Stark, and waking up to a head splitting open, a body cramped into a knot, and--well--a regular weekend bender of this-close-to-upchuck gut just happened to be part of his unique human experience. You know, like waking up in a strange bed with the sinking certainty that things were only going to get worse.

Ah, yes. _This shit again._ He kicked the covers off his legs and winced at the ache in his muscles. Wondered how much of this was old and how much, bond. Or the result of being manhandled out of his goddamned house by what had to be fourteen really big guys, right? _Fifteen is my limit on schnitzengruben,_ and all that. He tried to bring up the memory--he’d gone to sleep the night before, after chewing over Loki’s strange, almost placid behavior, his softer-- _ugh_ \--feelings, and ... maybe woken up?

Gotten up? Had it even been morning?

Christ, he was still in his t-shirt and sweats. Whatever had happened, he’d been grabbed without realizing it, knocked out, and stolen away to some damned place. Some place he didn’t own. Yet again.

The bed wasn’t usually this comfortable, however. He pushed up against the headboard with only a single, sincere groan and took a look around, scratching fingernails into his scalp to both straighten his hair and check for lumps. It was worse than he thought: bed curtains. Ornate posts. Dull, frilly landscapes framed on the walls. A whole helluva lot of brocade, dark wood, and jewel tones.

And no sign of tech after the invention of the fountain pen. It was the kind of room that made Tony want to vomit on principle, which was saying something, because he already kind of wanted to vomit just due to feeling like his own damned self in this new soulmated paradigm.

Wondered how long he’d been out, and whether Loki even realized he was gone yet. Just for a second, wondered if Loki was ... okay, or if he had--and Tony abandoned that line of thought just as quickly. Loki could fucking take care of himself.

And JARVIS and Thor could help if needed. Tony had a feeling he would be worse off if Loki had been injured--or killed--anyway.

He slapped his face with his hands, trying to loosen the murk in his head, then look another look around for cues. The effect of the room overall was pre-Revolutionary France--the richer, luckier people, not the lash-bait in mud and rags, and Tony had once stayed in a castle in Austria with a family that would have been first to the guillotine two hundred years earlier, with an old rich bastard whose daughter had been game for--

Oh, Christ, he was messed up. Traveling down memory lane with that--incredibly flexible--girl while he was being held prisoner in an anonymous castle. Stories like this sounded promising, but usually ended with poison or beheadings. Or poison _and_ beheadings.

Based on how his head felt--the thick pounding behind his forehead that made it harder to think--he’d take the beheading.

Given a choice.

And, on cue, a woman walked through the open door beyond the end of the bed. (Okay, _no beheading_ , please--that timing was Natasha-level creepy.) She was, as that Austrian deb was before her, gorgeous. Sunlight--afternoon?--from the windows illuminated her loose gold hair, smooth skin over seemingly-carved, perfect cheek- and collarbones. Her dress was a gauzy yellow-green, patterned strangely and bound to her waist with layered strips of leather, and the whole thing set off her boobs to great effect.

It was kind of early in their acquaintance for that much boob, but Tony wasn’t dead yet, and--

Well. She was pretty fucking hot. Objectively speaking. Still, with the whole “being kidnapped from his ultra-secure Tower” thing, he probably needed to be on his game. So, with only a little more effort than usual, out came Tony capital-S Stark:

“Don’t get me wrong--I mean, I appreciate the comfort, but these aren’t my usual sort of ‘nabbed by an evil supervillain’ accommodations. You sure you didn’t get turned around on the way to the dungeon?” Yeah, that was the trifecta--dungeon, wedged between the poison and beheading.

What’s-her-name gave him a half-smile, passed the foot of the bed to the windows, obviously not concerned at all at having Tony at her back. Following her vantage point, Tony got a glimpse of ... oh, Christ, snowy mountains beyond, like they were up somewhere very high, and the States didn’t have a range like that. He hoped to fuck Earth did. Maybe he was seeing the Alps from a new angle?

Maybe? _Please?_

Good fuck, his head really hurt.

The chick turned around. “‘Nabbing’ wasn’t the objective, Mr. Stark.” She crossed her arms, almost successfully distracting him with the new cleavage, but he wasn’t that much of a sucker. Most days. Okay, he peeked, but then he shrugged off her calculated gaze as he worked to place her accent. Some kind of European, but particularly full of snobbery.

She gave up her looksee, seemingly exasperated that he wouldn’t play, and explained, “My instructions for you were a lot more _final._ ”

That’s what he figured. You gotta watch your head. He sighed, slapped his hands together, and winced at the noise. “ _Aaand_ ... which rich asshole with a revenge boner is after me this time?”

Yeah, no answer other than a tiny smirk. He pushed himself from the bed, staggered a little as the vertigo flared up. Oh, Jesus--this shit. Pressed his palms to the top curve of his knees and tried to figure out balance again.

He looked up from his undignified hunch. “Who are you, then?”

“I’m called Amora.”

Didn’t ring a bell. “Pretty. ‘Love,’ or something like that, huh? Italian?” Again, no response, so he plowed ahead. “What do you love, Amora? Money? Some asshole with a bank vault and a big di--”

“Stark.” She said it softly, but something about her bearing, the patterns in her dress, and, oh, yeah, the electric _crackle_ in the air at the final hard sound, and ...

That particular accent. He _knew_ that accent.

His head dropped back down, his eyes blurring in the pattern of the rug. _Oh._

Oh, _no._

Not Italian.

Wow. _Wow._ So that’s how it was going to go. And he thought he fucking knew pain, but the slotting of those pieces, that _one fucking piece,_ into place ... He had not only not asked for this shit, not asked to be the one human soulmate ever, but now he was going to pay for not living up to that shithead’s expectations.

“You, more than anyone, can trust Loki now,” Thor had said.

Fuck you.

_FUCK. YOU._

He laughed a little bit, could hear how weak it sounded, how cracked, but what the fuck. What the _actual fuck._ The slimy bastard had squirmed his way around the one law Thor had described as immutable. “Cannot hurt you,” Tony’s no-longer-cherry _ass._ He only hoped that, however sick and broken he was feeling, the suffering was even nastier on the other side.

He also had to get out of here so he could fucking kill someone. Practice on the little one--littler one--first before taking on his matchmaker brother.

It took some determination, but he wouldn’t face this shit hunched over like an old man after a flight of stairs. He pulled himself straight. Gave Amora another look-over, and then surveyed the suspiciously perfect surroundings. “Yeah. I’m suddenly feeling like I know the rich guy with the revenge boner.” Uttered the next with a dry disappointment: “Intimately.”

That elicited a chuckle. She tilted her head toward the door. “Join me for dinner, Stark. We should keep your strength up--this separation must be difficult.” And then she ... raised an arm to show the way.

And, since there was only one way, unless he planned to leap to the rocky slopes below, try not to bounce too hard on the way down ...

Yeah, it was actually a fucking castle, looked like--stone walls, torches, cringing peons, one mean-looking dude with a giant axe, like Gimli, only two of him. Tony shouldn’t put it past any of these Asgardians to create comfortable (and so _evocative_ ) lairs for themselves. Dinner was served at an enormous table, fit for a court or all the Von Trapps, but Amora made herself comfortable just across from him at one end.

Cozy.

Tony couldn’t complain, if this was the last meal: the torchlight better set off her boobs. At least he had something to focus on as he planned soulmatricide. He would have appreciated the formal dinner more, of course, if he had been able to eat it. Instead, he turned and dragged his fork over his plate while trying to maintain enough conversation not to be murdered yet. Was beginning to suspect “immediate dispatching” wasn’t part of her plans, given the lack of the axe guy coming at him, and the fact that Amora kept talking. About the quality of the unidentifiable poultry, the usefulness of the help, Tony’s own reputation among the--oh, yeah--”Midgardians.”

She was also studying him carefully, watching every twitch and blanch, cataloguing the more-obvious pains. Raised an eyebrow as she looked back down to her own plate, smug in knowledge of something, which irritated him to no fucking end. Studied him without shame over the lip of her wine glass.

Didn’t say the “L” word.

That “L” word. That fucking _loser._

Finally said:

“There are certain gifts, Stark, that are truly precious in my culture. Understood to be universally precious.” She picked at the pastry that a simpering peon had left at her elbow before vanishing back into shadow. She broke off a corner of the triangle with her fork but made no move to eat it. Looked like it was playing-with-food night.

Amora lifted her eyes to meet his, and her expression was shrewd. “I have never known one of these gifts to be discarded. It ... offends me.” She looked surprised at her own admission. Continued: “It wouldn’t even be a criminal act, on my world, for such a thing has never been done, and therefore there is no law against it.”

And _that?_ Made Tony feel even more _special._

Amora set her fork down, dessert untouched. “Ours is a society with many, many laws. And a single arbiter.” The words flowed out, even more confused, "Such a thing ... is not done."

Tony had barely taken a bite, but he studied his plate anyway, shoving greens around with his own fork to buy time. His stomach wasn’t settled, but he could go through the motions until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with. He snorted and shook his head, just a little. It was actually kind of nice to get more information from someone who wasn’t trying to kill him, apparently, or that someone’s male-cheerleader brother.

And, frankly, this was already a universe better than a cave with a car battery in his chest.

This fucking life.

He tapped the metal tines on the plate in a nervous rhythm. Offered up a killer, if totally insincere smile, and, “Is this the part where I say, ‘It’s complicated?’”

Amora sipped at her wine again. Hummed. “Perhaps. Regardless, I believe it will be of better benefit to my ... interests ... if you are allowed to go free. I believe it would cause--”

And he knew she was going to say it before it came out of her mouth. These fucking Asgardian assholes.

“--more mischief that way.” Yeah, there it was. “And I believe your world could use more of it.”

Tony set his fork down and pushed the plate a couple of inches away. Watched another silent peon shuffle forward to clear it. Once the man--creature--whatever was gone, Tony folded his hands in front of his face and peered at Amora over his knuckles. “I don’t know. I think I’ve had enough for one lifetime, thanks. Enough for a thousand years of lifetime, if you get my drift”--he sighed pointedly--“and I think you do.”

He leaned back in his chair, dropping a hand to his queasy stomach. Waved at Amora with the other, a gesture meant to encapsulate this whole stupid place. “So,” he risked, because fuck, yes, he was Tony Stark. “I get to go. It’s that easy?”

And he’d seen a variation of that smile before, the one that prefaced an unhinging jaw, being tossed out a window, or both. Wondered if she was an actual relative. “Not _that_ easy, no. For you still have to see your soulmate again.” She stood from the table and turned away, but, over her shoulder, concluded, “And he still has to see _you,_ Tony Stark.”

Huh, yeah. That was going to be fun. That was going to be _exactly the opposite_ of fun. As he pulled himself together, Tony realized a couple of things. One, he didn’t feel quite as bad as he’d expected, given the distance they’d been torn apart. (This was Earth, _right?_ ) He’d expected, based on Thor’s cautions and Loki’s threats, that physical separation meant the kind of wasting illness that had struck him those first days, when he’d tried to reject the bond outright.

He felt nasty, yes, but regular-flu nasty, not “guts liquefying into human sludge and pouring out every orifice” bad. He wondered how the asshole was faring, given that he was the one to reject the bond this time.

To toss his soulmate out like so much garbage. “Discard” was the word Amora used, and that’s what it felt like. He had been _discarded._

Second ... he didn’t want to go home. Not to that home, anyway. Let Loki have it. Let Loki _rot in it._ When Amora asked him how he wanted to be returned, he asked her instead to fling him back to the house in Malibu, where his feet could settle solidly on the ground and where he had a warm bed to collapse into. Alone. And once he was in familiar surroundings, he could figure out what to do next. Maybe he would see Loki again--maybe he had to see Loki again, but it would be on his own damned terms.

And if he suffered in the meantime? Yeah, that was okay. He did it pretty well, after all. He was _good_ at it.

He could only hope that Loki suffered worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up? Loki suffers worse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discoveries are made, for worse ... and for better.

And this was how Thor found his brother: curled on the floor, only half-crawled from the penthouse’s main rooms to the bedchamber he shared with Stark. Convulsed and whimpering and shedding tears into the rough weave of the hall rug.

“Brother! What is it?!” And when Thor turned Loki over onto his back, he recoiled from the sheen of sweat on his brother’s face, the waxen skin, the bloodshot eyes. “Brother!”

More alarmingly, it took a moment for Loki’s eyes to swim to Thor’s face, and even longer for Loki to fix long enough--to recognize his own kin. “Thor,” he wheezed.

Thor whispered his brother’s name, dragging the damp hair away from his forehead with a gentle hand. As he had done many a time before, Thor hoisted Loki into his arms--so carefully--and carried him the rest of the way to the bedchamber. Laid him down atop the rumpled bedding, and then pressed a hand to Loki’s forehead, to the apple of his cheek, this time to gauge temperature.

No obvious fever, but Thor pulled away a hand dampened with sweat. “What ails you?” he asked with urgency. Loki’s eyes turned to Thor’s again, but he either could not--or would not--answer. Instead, he swallowed with a dry click.

Thor stood from the bed, shouted, “Stark!” as loud as he could--heard his own call echo through the building, rattling the windows and sending shudders into the floor. Stark should have heard. Should have responded. Thor thought for a minute, and then, with more hesitation, called for JARVIS.

... No response.

Stark shouldn’t have-- Shouldn’t have left the Tower yet. Possibly couldn’t have, if what Thor had been taught about soul bonds were true. The pair needed at least another month for the bond to mature, and even then, separations would have to be managed with caution. Often, it was at least a year before soulmates could travel any distances separately.

Or, at least, until they wanted to. Many of the protocols of soul bonds were unclear--biology versus desire. Getting between two soulmates, even to try to learn more about how bonds functioned, was one of Asgard’s strongest taboos. One Thor respected, as he had done everything in his power to respect and encourage this one.

He repeated Stark’s invisible servant’s name once more, but his voice had gone quieter, more hesitant.

Something had happened.

Something had been _done._

His eyes returned to Loki, who was trying, unsuccessfully, to curl into himself in the thick linens.

 _Oh._ Oh, _Loki._

With a growing feeling of dread, Thor sat himself heavily on the bed’s edge, jostling Loki on the mattress. “Brother,” he sighed, afraid he already knew the answer to the question he had not yet asked. Asked it anyway:

“Loki. What have you done?”

Loki turned wet eyes, finally focusing on Thor. It took some time, between bouts of violent illness, between Thor’s storm-rages and, later, consoling touches, but Loki, eventually, slowly, confessed.

***

Days earlier, after landing feet-first on his own goddamned roof (“and thanks _so much_ for that, Amora”), Tony had committed, one-hundred percent, to getting life back to normal.

In Malibu. And who didn’t love Malibu. The weather, the ocean, his one-hundred-percent-more-awesome rebuilt house that--okay--looked a lot like the previous house, but had maximized energy efficiency and a bigger TV.

It had all the comforts of home--beer in the fridge, a branch of SI with junior staff close enough to handle, as Pepper described it, “refilling your pellets and water bottle,” like he was some kind of recluse. Or rodent--that was probably what she was going for. And it was time for Tony to get back in the damned running wheel. Even Dummy was cleaned and repaired and back in the workshop. Where Tony was laboriously putting together a new, and, yes, one-hundred-percent-better arc reactor.

He knew--knew--that Loki was aware he was still alive. Could feel the vague twinges of anxiety and ongoing misery through their link, as much as he tried to brush it away like a swarm of mosquitos. That Loki also felt shame was curious. Unexpected, and definitely an emotion Tony tried hard not to let overcome him. But, while he tried to ignore it, it eked its way under his skin all the more. It reminded him too much of his father and those days of forced self-discovery in Afghanistan.

If Loki felt shitty about what he’d done, if Loki recognized that what he had done was wrong--all the better. As long as Loki stayed far the fuck away.

He filled in a few of the remaining questions after he’d climbed down from the roof (“no, really, thank you”). Gotten JARVIS back up and running pretty easily, but left him on mute in the Tower after working very hard to calm the agitated AI.

“I’m fine, Jay.”

“Yes, I will start working on closing that loophole.”

“That’s what you get for letting the god of lies, Mister Silvertongue himself, sweet-talk you, huh?”

(And it was a good thing he had peons at the nearby offices, because he’d earned an impressive amount of prissy cold-shouldering at the last bit. No pellets from JARVIS.)

As he’d gotten reacquainted with Malibu and started into work, Tony’d been surprised that he was in such little discomfort, some stomach spasms, yes, and a near-constant throb in his head, but tolerable. It was puzzling. And he had no bulky, sun-shiningly smug god of brotherly dickishness to explain why, but ... you know, he’d take it. He wasn’t the one who’d contracted a hit on his soulmate.

He was the one who was trying to get them both out of it, maybe. By cracking his chest open again.

And there was the rub. Whenever Tony thought about it, his breath sped up and he had to sit back down for a minute, half-assembled reactor clutched tightly in his fist. It was the last thing he wanted to do--cut his chest open (okay, have _someone else_ cut his chest open; it wasn’t a self-serve gig) and jam this thing back in, on a fucking hunch. Just to see if it would make a goddamned difference.

He’d tried just holding one of the few surviving earlier prototypes up to his chest, in various positions, with no discernible difference. Had tried fitting them into crudely made harnesses bound to his chest or back, but could still feel Loki’s little curl of shame-spiral all the way across the country. Not promising. So it was entirely possible it wouldn’t work, and Tony would be left with a body cavity even more vulnerable than it already was, behind restructured breastbone and rib, his goddamned fucking heart the subject of far too many experimental surgeries.

At times like that, Tony breathed through his nose and shut off the bigger picture as much as he could--actually, he just turned on the enormous TV and hardwared the hell out of the materials he needed with shitty old shows playing in the background. Developed a newfound appreciation for Kung Fu: The Legend Continues and Hercules: The Legendary Journeys--anything with a colon in the title and low budget ceiling.

He was close to done--very close--when he tossed the device back onto the table and decided to go out. Hadn’t seen anyone in person in days, handling all Pepper’s and SI’s inquiries by videophone while begging off that he needed some time in the sun, and, yeah, Pepper was more than suspicious by now. She was downright accusatory, but it was layered sandwich-style with so much maternal fretting that Tony knew he still had time before she showed up at the house, heels clicking across the floor, to smack him in the face, figuratively speaking.

Or maybe literally.

She put up with a lot.

Tony wondered at a universe that gave him Loki as a soulmate, and not Pepper. Wondered what it would feel like to have that level of devotion surging through your every thought and cell, that wry humor, that fondness. The headiest, horniest moments of lust, in that brief sweet spot of their relationship, when they couldn’t strip off their clothes fast enough and crawl inside each other even faster.

At those moments, yeah, the hurt flared back up, and hard, and even over the distance folded back onto itself, bouncing like a fucking transcontinental pinball, and hit him in the chest, _again._

_Loki._

**_STOP._ **

No, Loki couldn’t read his mind, but the projected outrage Tony sent back, megaphone-loud, was enough to slow things down a little. He somehow knew when Thor had arrived at the Tower, days after Tony had returned to ... Earth, the States, whatever. He could feel when something changed in Loki, big enough and bold enough to announce Big Brother, the God of Thunder. Had felt a surge of relief layered with embarrassment and, always, resentment. Felt the childlike pleasure of physical comfort coming through the bond that suggested Loki was being cared for.

Must be nice.

... It actually _did_ feel nice. Wow.

Also, Loki fucking lied when he said he didn’t care about his brother--Jesus. Even Tony could feel that. And as for how much Thor cared about his little shit of a baby brother ... Wondered how much Thor would really continue to push his obvious agenda. He could suddenly picture Thor as Lohan-style bait for the ultimate Parent Trap. (Tony turned the shitty TV off after that. He’d left it on USA too long.)

So, he sent a message to Thor in the Tower--recorded, for maximum passive-aggression--assuring Thor that he was fine, and to “stay the fuck away. Please.”

Worth a try. If Thor showed up, if Thor came back to get him, or, heaven forbid, involved any of their mutual acquaintances, Tony wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it. Wasn’t sure how to put off a determined alien-god who really wanted his brother paired off in the most miserable forced marriage ever conceived by God or Odin or Oprah.

Would deal with that shit when it came down. Had a feeling Bruce would get his back, at least.

Until then, Tony wanted to ... see someone else. Touch someone else. _Get his fucking rocks off again_ , for the first time since this whole nightmare had started. Forget. There was one thing he could still do, and it was another thing Malibu was good for--he could go out and party and meet beautiful people and maybe, just maybe (okay, yes, probably), enjoy and be enjoyed for one single night.

But that was the thing:

“Are you okay?” she asked, later that night, as Tony rolled off with a frustrated groan. He slammed his head ineffectually into the pillows.

It was some hours later, and he was being peered at with confusion by a sharp-tongued, gorgeous example of investment advisor, the kind of smokin’ variant of geek he always seemed to find in southern California.

Tony had had a bad revelation, as he’d watched her pull her clothes back on with not-unkind words of reassurance, in a tone that suggested she was already considering the best route home.

Those oaths between Loki and him? The ones that seemed perfunctory? Symbolic, at most? Well, yeah, they _were,_ okay? Tony hadn’t felt magical ribbons coil around his wrist or dick or anything. But ... it turned out to be really hard to _get_ hard when every twinge of pleasure, every sensual touch, every attempt of your mind to let itself go gets sent along a mystical conduit to your goddamned _NOT-A-HUSBAND_ across the country.

When the response to those so-good touches is nothing but a confused kind of aborted arousal, an echoed pleasure quickly denied, and then even more pain and shame ...

And loneliness. Oh, Christ, did Tony mention the loneliness? Because that was a feeling he wanted to banish from their shared empathic vocabulary and never deal with again. He would feel that hollowness in his chest forever, and it was like he already had been broken open once more.

So, those oaths--the ones about cleaving forever and being each other’s protector and goddamned fidelity ... _FIDELITY_ ...

It didn’t escape Tony’s horrified sense of irony that his current unsatisfied bedmate worked for that company, by the way. Maybe Tony should believe in God. Or Oprah.

God was trying to tell him something, as the song went.

So, he sent the woman on her way, cringing at the thought of his pathetic excuses--insomnia, overwork, just having fucked ten other people that afternoon, maybe?--appearing in some nasty online rags the next morning, or a month from now, or a year from now. Or, you know, the thought of it just being out there, _in her head,_ that he was barely able to get it up. That he gave up.

Wondered if Amora was still taking marching orders before the exhausted laugh left him doubled, abdomen clenching feebly.

When the leech of loneliness continued, even hours after the Ms. Fidelity left--because, naturally, Tony couldn’t sleep, and obviously Loki couldn’t either--he girded himself and did the only thing he could do, out of self-preservation:

He focused on good memories. Memories of friendship, memories of adventure, memories of success, memories of loving and being loved ...

... His mother’s touch. The look on Rhodey’s face in the desert. The first time JARVIS had spoken aloud ...

Hell, the first time he’d read Confederacy of Dunces, for fuck’s sake. Tucked that in, too.

He bundled it all up in a stupid, psychic-ribbon-wrapped care package, and sent it, megaphone-loud, across the country.

The relief and gratitude that slowly wound its way back to him was all that finally allowed him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're over the hump, people. One more chapter to this part, and then a final part to tie up the series.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki feels Stark's absence.

For a few terrible hours, Thor was certain he would have to return Loki to Asgard. To the feet of the elders who could only pretend they understood the nuances of this poisoned bond. And to the purview of their father, whose tolerance of Loki’s misdeeds was all but spent.

Thor had passed the days since his return being everything to his brother. Ensuring he ate and changed into fresh clothing, helping him bathe and clean himself, hearing the foul memories formed since the bonding, and, even worse, learning of the scheme Loki had hatched to free himself.

Thor, brother of Loki:

Nursemaid, housekeeper, confessor.

It turned his stomach to imagine any soulmate turning on the other so, but, Thor was forced to admit, this was like no such bond he or any before him had witnessed. Knew it was of ill gain to turn to the elders, for this very reason. Their bafflement would be just as complete as Thor’s own, but without the sympathy to temper their actions and words. Their eventual counsel to his father.

He tried not to be angry with Tony Stark. He knew Stark had had so little to do with this outcome--had absolutely no previous reference for their connection. Knew what Loki had done to Stark, both since they’d been mated and in the years prior. Thor could only press his lips together in an impression of a smile when Loki laughed bitterly and wondered, “If only I hadn’t thrown him out the window. I think perhaps that was an ill portent.”

Loki was unable to go far, still trapped in the upper floors of the Tower, which had been emptied in the days since Stark’s disappearance and return. Tony hadn’t explained his designs in his message to Thor. Only indicated he was safe and well (enough) and had no intention of returning home--to _that_ home--and that Thor and Loki were forbidden from going to him. He’d sent his underlings from the other floors of the Tower and left JARVIS in charge of managing the building.

No, Stark didn’t order Thor and Loki out; nor did he invite them to stay. Just quietly removed, from the building, anyone who could get hurt in some future confrontation, Thor observed. A wise consideration, if bleak.

Thor was uncertain how to break this stalemate, if indeed it could be broken. Loki was wasting, weak and exhausted. Stark himself must be suffering, but if the man found discomfort in his isolation more appealing than the warfare of the spirit he and Loki had engaged in ... Thor could hardly blame him.

So. The stalemate continued, until in the darkest hours of one terrible morning. And, for a few brief hours, they only got worse.

***

Loki was determined that he would overcome this. If Stark could surmount the agony of pulling their connection taut, if he could repair to another part of this miserable realm but still, apparently, experience a range of sensations above illness and despair, Loki could achieve the same.

At first, it didn’t feel like he could achieve what Stark had. He’d barely been able to move from the bed--only complained wordlessly when Thor lifted him to the bath, or moved him to another room to be exposed to the sun. Thor had shushed Loki’s grumbles with his usual--infuriating--cheerfulness and practicality. Noted that he’d seen worse on the battlefield-- _of course_ he had!--and he would not let a little sickness stop him from caring for his younger brother.

And Loki, unfortunately, would never forget having his _arse wiped_ by his elder brother in the darkest of days.

It had taken days, then more than two weeks, but he had begun to rouse. Almost blinked blindly into Thor’s bright smile when he’d managed to pull himself out of bed and stand, shakily, next to it. (Oh, and it was his turn now, yes--Stark had been the one bedridden at first, but now it was Loki’s time to pay.) Had pushed himself, one slow step at a time, to the spot of sun that landed on a soft chair in a nook off the kitchen. Thor served him tea, there, and, yes, Loki also would never forget having his used plates cleared away by his brother, Asgard's crown prince. Always with that shining smile and encouraging tone.

During all of it, he could feel Stark. Knew Stark felt him as well. At the beginning, he had kept his thoughts pulled away from the man as much as he could, in some small way shielding himself from the bursts of outrage--and, yes, simple rage--that were lobbed at him from across this continent. But, as time passed, yet more weeks, as Loki began to ... “recover,” perhaps, wasn’t the right word, but “surface,” other feelings slipped through his attempts to ignore them.

One that Loki came to recognize quickly: the sort-of wry self-amusement that seemed to be Stark’s crest. Loki wasn’t always certain what caused it, but its frequency suggested that Stark himself was finding a bit of fatalistic humor in their situation. Especially as the strongest sense of it was after some spontaneous trade of offense or annoyance between the two of them.

The fatalism echoed Loki’s own thoughts; yet, while Loki turned anger and disappointment inward, Stark ... Stark apparently had discovered a way to savor the ridiculous. Loki supposed that was the luxury of his peculiar good health and mental well-being.

He realized just how well Stark was feeling his health very late one night, when he woke to a familiar ...

Ah.

Loki guessed it was a woman. No, he could _tell_ it was a woman. The particular hue of Stark’s fluid enjoyment suggested “female,” in the same way Loki felt Stark’s reaction when talking to his favored underling, the Potts woman.

Loki had wondered if Stark previously had had firm beliefs in his preference for the opposite sex, and if that were part of his visceral reaction to their bonding. (He had vomited, Loki thought, and if that weren’t visceral, what was?) Not that he had had the opportunity to ask Stark, and the ultimate and varied gender combinations of other pairings never seemed to affect their success.

The particular, low-level loveliness of Stark’s evening--”hedonism” was a good word for it--continued for an hour, then two, then ...

Oh.

_No._

Loki was struck simultaneously by the mortification of his own unexpected--unwilling--arousal and the humiliation that his--

His _soulmate._

They had sworn that--

Of course, their oaths had already been rendered meaningless when Loki had engineered his kidnapping and would-have-been murder. This was Loki’s doing--all of it. And for now, he would get the cruel consequence of feeling his own soulmate fuck another being.

Bear unwitting witness to Stark’s infidelity.

His utterly _justifiable_ infidelity.

Oh, how the court hens would cackle as they gobbled up this story.

He felt himself harden as Stark did, couldn’t help it ... but ...

_But._

He could help Stark, Loki supposed miserably. Could let Stark have this singular thing. So he tamped down whatever errant feelings he might have had--muted them as best he could--while he pressed himself into this bed and fought the urge to touch and take and worship. Knew the one he should wish to touch and take (and _worship_ ) was closed off to him forever.

Loki had failed in every way. In the short term, his punishment would be perverse indeed. In the long term, he was fated to suffer through a lifetime of feeling Stark touch, pleasure, and love others.

While Loki lived a lifetime of remembering what he himself had done, the crimes he himself had committed, and remained forever alone.

***

Sensing something amiss with his sibling, Thor had left his own room and found Loki’s down the hall. Heard his brother’s quiet, choking sobs through the half-open door.

He pushed the door fully open without a knock and crossed to Loki’s bed. Whispered his brother’s name quietly as he sat on the edge of the mattress, inches from Loki’s hip, and rested a hand on Loki’s hitching shoulder.

He tried for a comforting squeeze. “What is it?”

Loki only shook his head and continued to gasp through tears that ran from the corners of his eyes and into the pillow beneath. He seemed to shake himself, to struggle for a breath as he sought an answer for Thor’s question, or just tried to will him away.

Probably the later. Which would not happen.

“Brother.” Thor would care for Loki as long as it took, and wanted no help, but tonight’s regression made him waver. “Do I need to summon Stark?”

The hopelessness in Loki’s wet laugh made Thor’s own heart ache. “No,” Loki managed. “He is ... occupied. Let him be.”

So Thor sat at Loki’s side, brushing his sweat-damp hair from his forehead, drying fresh tears with the box of tissue he found in a drawer. Telling him a story here or there that he suspected Loki didn’t hear, or didn’t care to hear, but was too weak--or too sorrowful--to counter.

Finally, Loki broke in. “Brother,” and, despite Loki’s suffering, Thor still thrilled to hear it. He held his turned knuckles to Loki’s cheekbone, the caress soft and, as ever, attempting to soothe. “I confess, I have tried to imagine a scenario in which ... in which Stark and I could have met under different circumstances. One in which we didn’t--

“In which I didn’t--”

When he trailed off, eyes fixed dazedly at the ceiling, Thor leaned in, wishing as always to help. “I too have tried to think of how else you may have met each other, and I find myself at a loss. Without your cunning--without your devious conniving, brother--” And Loki scoffed tiredly at that, as Thor wanted him to. “--you would likely never have come to Midgard in his lifetime ... You certainly would not have met him were you not on opposite sides of a battlefield.”

Thor pulled his hand back, rested both in his lap. Looked over his brother’s exhausted form, his glassy eyes. Said what was in his heart, even if he knew it could be poorly received. “It has given me hope that your union is fated, truly.” At Loki’s wince, he clarified: “ _Well_ -fated, brother. That you are yet meant for each other.”

Loki fell silent again after that, but Thor didn’t delude himself that Loki was recovering, or that he would truly rest. His eyes remained fixed on some point above, tears periodically freeing themselves to drip from his temples into his hairline. He clutched his own hands over his stomach, harsh enough that his knuckles glowed white.

Thor made himself as comfortable as possible, drawing the chair near to the bed once more and watching Loki with his own eyes while his mind wandered freely to what might have been, and wondered what would yet be.

And, oh, he _still hoped_. Foolishly, and yet ...

It was an hour later, perhaps two, that Loki shook once and let out ... let out a sigh. Something that almost hinted at relief. His lids finally fell, as if he would sleep, and even his mouth softened into a suggestion of a smile.

“What is it, Loki?” Thor asked,

“Stark is--” Loki’s voice was quiet as it slurred into unconsciousness. “Stark ... is being merciful.”

***

“Loki.”

In his brother’s tone, Loki heard the decision he knew was coming.

It was days past the worst of it--the night he had felt Stark take (attempt to take) another, and Loki knew Thor was paying careful attention to his growing fitness. Knew his brother would wake up one morning, consider their situation, and come to the rational conclusion.

Indeed: “We must go,” Thor said that morning. The finality of his tone suggested Thor had spent quite some time considering this, and he meant their relocation to be just as final.

Loki laughed hollowly as he plucked at his loose clothing. “Where? Back to Asgard?” He couldn’t conceive of the welcome he would receive--all the derisive looks of his “countrymen” and a quick march to the palace dungeons. Wondered if he would even see Odin this time before being thrown into an eternal imprisonment.

“No,” Thor answered, and Loki jerked his head up in surprise. “There is no point. You do not wish to be there.” He sighed. “And you are not wanted there. Just as we--” And Loki heard the emphasis in the word. “--are not wanted here. This is Stark’s home, and he has been hospitable to a fault considering the--” Yes, yes. “--considering the circumstances.”

The expression that followed was one Loki had become well-accustomed to. Disappointment. Frustration. The faces Thor often wore when dealing with his younger brother. He snuffed out the little ache this moment inspired--chose not to have Stark sense it more than necessary.

Thor continued. “He will wish to return to it, and possibly soon.” Thor turned his head to survey the apartment, a gesture meant to be pointed rather than necessary. “It is best we are gone when he does. I mean to leave at once.”

Loki gave a small nod in response, and a tired smile. _So soon,_ then. Sent the infinitesimal warmth he felt at Thor’s softening expression toward his soulmate, rather than the resignation he took pains to camouflage. Felt Stark's gentle echo back.

And so, after a few hours' discussion and the consulting of maps, they settled on creating a temporary home in the frigid mountains of the northwest part of this land, a place where Thor would build them a shelter within some inaccessible woods, and Loki’s magic would warm it with a hearth-fire and keep it hidden from eyes above. From there, they would consider retreats to other realms, once they were certain that distance wouldn't harm either Loki or Stark.

Thor had informed JARVIS of their plans so that he could convey a message to Stark, that he would be free to return to the Tower in another day's time, and they set to packing what items Loki had. Mostly garments Thor had brought to him and some sleepwear Stark had produced when Loki had been ill-prepared and physically uncomfortable (more so) in their bed at night.

(“Self-preservation,” Stark had gritted out, as he laid the soft material on the dresser and immediately exited the room.)

Loki did decide to take the books he’d originally had his mind set on. He doubted Stark would begrudge him the possession of a few items, and ones so readily replaced.

They didn’t leave the same day. Thor wanted to scout ahead for locations, and he would return for Loki once the location was settled, in but a few more hours. And so Loki was left to wander the penthouse one final time. To mark these horrible months in his memory, and close the door on them.

It wouldn’t be ... The door would never be closed, truly. He would never, through Stark’s lifespan, be able to cut the man from his soul. Would ever and always feel the current of what he felt now, which at least ...

At least wasn’t utter misery.

In the weeks since Stark’s thwarted attempt at intimacy, since he had finally reached out to Loki with something besides anger or censure, they had settled into a softer, if still grim, acceptance. He could, at times, feel Stark’s humor (at times kind, at times laced with a mean-spirited enjoyment that Loki himself very much recognized). At times, he felt Stark’s contentment--wondered what he was doing to earn that low thrum of pleasure. Eating, perhaps, or bathing, or finally falling into sleep.

And, then, of course, he felt another kind of pleasure. For Stark had discovered that, although the presence of another in his bed would be fraught with angst and a very real risk to his potency ... well ...

Nothing stopped Stark from partnering with his own hand.

When Loki could feel, in the darkest hours of night, Stark’s pleasure start to build, his first instinct was to brood--over his status, his unfortunate mating, his initial, and ultimate, rejection. As his own peace offering to Stark, however, he battened those feelings down, and instead ...

Instead reached for his own pleasure, curled in his robe, on the bed they had briefly shared. Twisted his hips and toes into the sheets beneath him as his hands slid into the soft underclothes, found his own flesh responding to Stark’s self-gratification.

Ah, oh, it was something, the echo of these sensations. The ripples to and fro of lust and need. _Yearning._ The first time, Stark had slowed, suddenly aware he was not alone in his manipulations, and hotly embarrassed for it. But even the first time it hadn’t discouraged him much, and, soon enough, Loki was feeling the full force of Stark’s ecstasy peaking across their link.

He felt Stark pull away, after, just as Loki discovered his own spend decorating his belly and chest, his cock touched only for scant moments and with a cautious hand.

Oh.

Then he felt Stark’s genuine humor, the sense that Loki's own surprise was being laughed at. Sent back his own burst of annoyance and embarrassment, but layered with genuine self-effacement. Understood for a moment why the soulmates he and Thor had known couldn’t be kept apart for long periods of time, why children were rarely allowed in their presence until long months had passed and the bond mates had learned some self-control.

He could see how little self-control he would have, given a bond not so abused as theirs. Even from a distance, even with their history--oh, he wanted to feel it _again._

And so he did, and they did, and for brief windows of time, the craving shut out all else.

For brief windows of time, Loki could forget.

_But._

At the end, the memories always returned, for both of them.

Now, it was the silent hours of early morning, on the day Thor and Loki would take their leave. As he waited for his brother’s return, as he stared at the bundle of possessions he would take from Stark’s home, he supposed this outcome was the best he could hope for. The connection between them had muted from the first excruciating days and weeks. Perhaps the physical separation had sped it along--pulled apart like elastic, and too far, for too long, it had lost its resiliency. He still sent, and received, occasional bursts of hurt and anger; on his end, entirely due to the profound sense of being cheated of what could have been his, if all else had gone differently.

Even now, he could only feel a low current of ... urgency, he supposed. There was something Stark needed to do. Probably eager to close up his home across the country and return here. But he felt secure--stalwart--and there was something in his ever-present determination that Loki was beginning to find comfortable. Loki could live with this.

He could live with it _enough._

If the bond continued to fade, if it were even more muted, it was possible, eventually, that Stark would be able to find a new partner and successfully copulate with with him. Her. Or that Loki could train himself not to be sorrowful and ashamed when he felt Stark’s attempts. That he could do something else besides abhor himself when Stark only wished to connect to another.

He wondered if he would ever see Stark again. Well, _he_ could see Stark whenever he wished. He wondered, instead, if Stark would ever care to see _Loki_ again. Would have sent the man his own farewell message, but JARVIS would no longer respond to Loki’s voice, not verbally, anyway, and so he would remain uncertain if the message had been recorded and conveyed. And he wouldn’t endure the humiliation of asking his brother to convey such a message.

Instead, he bundled up every scrap of regret, every shred of remorse, and gifted them to Stark. Whatever Loki had done to deserve this fate, Stark was guilty of nothing. He had only been a victim of Loki’s wickedness and the cruelties of fate. Loki hoped Stark would feel his lamentation and understand, and perhaps, long from now, bear him less ill will.

In response: Exasperation, again, and a rise in Stark’s urgency ...

Before Loki could delve into it, he heard a sound from across the living area, from around the corner.

Thor’s return. So, this was it. Time to take their leave. Loki stood from the sofa, clutched his hands together, and turned to attend his brother.

_Oh._

Then he breathed it: “Oh.”

It was Stark. Standing, breathing heavily-- _why?_ \--and with the elevator doors closing behind him.

Loki’s arms fell to his sides.

How had he--

How had they--

_How?_

Stark raised a hand, palm outward, as he stepped further into the room. “Don’t,” Stark said. “Just ... don’t. Go.” He shook his head minutely, and his eyes were hard. Clarified: “Don't go. Not yet.”

Loki fell to his knees, just as he had done when the bond had first found him. First found them, and in this very place. Felt his stomach tumble and roil in anxiety, fear ... an insidious hope. Squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, before opening them again to trace, stupidly, the patterns in the floor. Made a tiny noise in the back of his throat.

“Oh, Loki.” Stark took his own steadying breath, and with Loki’s head down he could only watch Stark’s approach from the edges of his vision. Saw the wobble in Stark’s step, the sloppily placed foot--he was not unaffected by their reunion.

No, not unaffected.

“Goddammit,” the man said, and, as Loki tilted his forehead against Stark’s hip, Stark brought a hand to rest on Loki’s crown.

***

That was how Thor found them, not long after. Loki’s bags in a cluster next to the sofa, forgotten; his brother on his knees; and Stark crouched over him, whispering into his ear. The tone wasn’t fond--it was half-threat, half-pleading, and Loki shook a bit as the foulest words slipped into his ears.

And yet Stark’s hands were on his brother, one tucked into the hair at the back of his neck, the other cupped tight around his shoulder.

Thor couldn’t help the relief that surged through him, how it manifested into a low chuckle. He brought his arms to cross over his chest. “I knew it,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Shut the fuck up,” was Stark’s response, and “You know nothing, _fool,”_ came from Loki. Neither turned toward him.

With merely an eyebrow in response--anything more would have been unwise, Thor could tell--he absented himself from the apartment and retreated to a lower floor. Would be available if JARVIS called on him, if the situation took a turn, but otherwise ...

Otherwise ...

He would let this reunion run its course, whatever that would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Rotten Wood. I hope it's close to what you suffering readers were hoping for. 
> 
> I plan one more part to this series, more of a coda, and it will be titled "Add It Up." If you're wondering, "But what about ... ," yes, it will address that! ;-)

**Author's Note:**

> [Follow me on tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com) for angsty handwringing over my writing and recs of other people's fantabulous fics.


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